


The Rising Tide

by allonsys_girl



Series: Consulting Husbands [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, John Has a Beard, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Mention Of Homophobia, Morning Sex, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock is absolutely head over heels in love, sequel to the beard fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 15:50:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3856291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock go through a bit of a rough patch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rising Tide

_Where are you? The match is about to start._

Case. Lestrade rang and I'm at the morgue right now.

_Oh._

I was about to text you.

_Sure you were._

You sound upset. Are you upset?

_I don't sound like anything, we're texting._

You know what I meant, John.

_Are you going to make it for any of it?_

At this rate, it's unlikely. The body's in a terrible state and the scene is compromised. It's going to be a late night.

_Molly with you?_

Yes. She's hardly you, but you need to finish your match. I'll be fine.

 _Okay_.

Are you upset?

_You already asked me that._

And I'm asking again.

_No, not upset. Disappointed, but it's okay. Do you need me after? For the case, do you need me?_

I have it in hand for now, don't let it distract you from the all important rugby! ; )

_Tell me about it when we get home?_

Always.

_Okay. Go poke at your corpse. I have to go. Love you. Don't do anything stupid without me._

I wouldn't dream. I love you too. Play well.

_I thought you wanted me to ravish you in the locker room. Can't do that if you're not here._

John, don't make me blush in the morgue.

_I really have to go._

Yes, do. Go wrestle with your friends in the mud. Remember we do not have an open relationship.

_Oh, fuck off. I'm going._

Text me pictures of you in the shorts.

_Fuck. Off._

Love you.

_Love you too._

***

_John_

"So where's your infamous other half, eh, John? Thought he'd be at the match, since he's been to nearly every practice." Owen Franklin, one of the team’s biggest forwards and John’s most reliable nurse at the surgery, slammed a pint down in front of John. He smiled through newly chipped teeth, his twisted potato nose crinkling at the bridge. “For you, Doc.”

"Oh, Sherlock had a - case." John squinted at the pint, his head heavy. "That's my fourth pint, mate. I think I need to slow down."

"Have to stay awake when you get home, eh? Eh?" Owen gave him a lascivious grin and elbowed him in his vaguely aching ribs.

John shook his head, feeling unaccountably lonely. He'd texted Sherlock after the match, just to let him know they'd won and to see if he was needed for the case. Sherlock hadn't texted him back. He'd had a few moments of concern, but likely Sherlock was just in his mind palace turning over evidence and didn't hear his phone. John could envision him, skinny bare feet curled over the edge of his chair, hands templed in front of his mouth with his fingertips slowly stroking the bottom of his nose, his eyes dark and fathomless and he stared into his own brilliant mind.

John sighed. God, he was being maudlin. Here he was in a raucous pub in South Bank with his rugby team after their first win, crying into his lager and missing his boyfriend. Pathetic, really, for a forty year old man. _Snap out of it, John._

"No. He'll be - he's not really. We don't. Not while we're on a case." John was starting to have trouble with sentences of more than five or six words. He didn't really drink like this anymore. He and Sherlock would often share a bottle of wine over the length of an entire evening, or sip scotch slowly in front of the fire, each of them with a book open on their laps. Slamming pints in quick succession was something he hadn't done since active duty. They'd won the match, though, their first match, and he should be reveling in it. He picked up the cool glass, damp with beads of sweat, and ran his thumb down through the moisture. "He'll be busy until late."

Owen slapped him on the back so hard that he lurched forward and spilled beer all over his hand and the bar. "Well, then you're all ours tonight, right? Our mad scoring fullback - how many tries tonight, John? Three? Fucking brilliant, mate!"

"Three, yeah." John nodded, and downed half the pint in one long draught. Fuck it, why not. Sherlock would be busy all night, Molly was assisting him. Why shouldn't he have fun with his teammates? He pulled out his wallet and tried to convince himself he was having fun. "I'll buy the next round."

Another forward, a burly black haired Northern Irish pediatrician named Tommy Sheehan, sidled up between John and Owen. His pale skin was ruddy, his normally sharp eyes unfocused. He draped an arm around each of them and grinned at John. "Not so bad for the oldest bloke on the team. Bet you'll be hurting tomorrow, though, old man."

"You're _four months younger_ than me, arsehole." John slapped him on the back and forced a laugh. He'd forgotten what it was like to do this, to unreservedly relax with friends, drink and sing and act ridiculous. He hooked a finger at the bartender, a willowy young woman with a double nose piercing and tattoos twining up her arms who poured shots at lightening speed. "Another round for this lot, love."

"Leave the tab open?" She deftly lined up pint glasses with one hand and held out the other for John's credit card.

It was only nine. "Yeah, why not? You only live once, right?"

She smiled at him and gave him an appraising sort of once over gaze lingering on his hips. "That's very true."

To his very great embarrassment, he felt himself flushing. He was a world class flirt, or had been once upon a time. He supposed he'd rather stopped noticing when anyone other than Sherlock was flirting with him. There was no mistaking the look the bartender was giving him now, though. It was playful and heated and her own hips twitched as she turned around to put his card in the reader.

"Oh, John, you're getting the eye, mate." Owen laughed.

John flushed harder and shook his head. She turned back round and handed him his card, leaned over the bar, ignoring both Owen and Tommy entirely as her eyes trailed up and down John's face. "I always need a ride home after work. Tube's closed at 2:00."

Tommy opened his mouth before John could speak. "Love, this one doesn't even drive. If he did, it would be stick shift, anyway, _if_ you know what I mean."

Owen guffawed and smacked his hand down on John's shoulder, "Stick shift, that's a good one, eh, John?!"

"Shut the fuck up, the both of you." John's buzz was abruptly dulling into an annoyed headache. Sherlock was off god knows where, without him, while he was tired and sore and trying to have fun, and now his friends were cracking gay jokes. Fucking lovely. He gritted his teeth and turned to Tommy with a tight jaw. “Seriously, that’s not funny, alright?”

“Aw, Doc. It was just a joke. Relax.” Owen was looking at him like he’d never seen him before.

“I am perfectly relaxed. I am _so_ relaxed. You have absolutely no idea what I’m like when I’m not relaxed.” John’s eyelid twitched slightly, and he could feel the venom in his smile. He needed to calm down.

The bartender backed away with wide eyes, clearly excusing herself from the rising tension, and started filling pint glasses.

Tommy's brow knitted together confusedly. "Shit, sorry, John. Really. I’m sorry. I was just taking the piss. You know I'm not like that."

"Not like what, a homophobic arsehole? Cause you _really_ sounded like one just now."

"I didn’t mean... I’m sorry. It won’t happen again." Tommy looked shocked and concerned. He backed up a step.

"Same, no harm meant. Just a joke." Owen smiled apologetically. "Like we always do. We all take the piss out of each other. Just laughs, John. You take the piss out of me the same way. I’m sorry if we offended you. It was a shit thing to say."

John sucked in a breath and tried to calm his hammering heart. They were right. He was all out of sorts, just drunk enough to be morose and tetchy. These were guys he worked with every day, who had been to Baker Street for dinner before, who knew and liked Sherlock. This evening was spiraling quickly downhill, and if he was honest, the real object of his ill temper was Sherlock. For missing the match, for not needing him on the case. That wasn't Owen's or Tommy's fault, or even really Sherlock's.

He shook his head and scrubbed his hand over his beard. "No, I'm sorry. Well, it _was_ a shit thing to say, but I don't know why I got so - I totally overreacted. Ignore me. I just need more beer, and I'll be fine. Just some more beer."

Looking profoundly relieved, Owen and Tommy roared their agreement at that sentiment and loaded their arms with beers to take back to the rest of the team. John gathered up four pints and stood up unsteadily from the bar stool. He lurched over to the table, which was covered with chips and spilled beer and empty cigarette packs, surrounded by both John’s team and the opposing team, all drinking and singing and laughing together.

There was an open door at the end of the table, and some of the guys were out on the sidewalk smoking, huddled round the doorway. The cold night air wafted over the table, mingling with the smell of cigarette smoke. The smell reminded John viscerally of Sherlock, wrapped in his dressing gown, one thin pale arm holding his cigarette out of the cracked open sash of one of the sitting room windows.

_Christ, John, stop your pining, you pathetic sod. You’ve been apart for one fucking day. He missed one rugby match, and you’re acting like you’ve been apart for years._

Already done that, and survived.

"Here lads, more beer!" John squeezed onto the end of a bench next to one of the other backs, a tiny red headed bloke from East London who John didn’t know that well. He and two others relieved John of three of his four pints. He took the last one for himself and slammed it quickly, allowing the din of the pub to wash over him.

Tommy started singing some bawdy rugby song that John vaguely remembered the lyrics to, and he fumblingly joined in as everyone raised their glasses. He reached for another pint, untouched in the middle of the table, and took a long sip. He was going to _make_ this a good night.

***

 _We_ _won! Won our first match! Missed you. Hope the case is moving along._

So glad you won. Yes, case moving. Sorry I didn’t get back to you right away. I’m at the lab now. Molly’s gone off home, leaving me with soggy chips and a dessicated corpse. Jealous? I’m guessing you’re out with the team. If you’re not, could really use you here.

Alright, I’m heading home. Hope you see you there _._

***

“You’ll make sure he gets home alright, yeah?” Owen leaned in the door of the cab as John crawled across the back seat and tried not to just face plant into the upholstery.

The cabbie twisted and looked over the seat, frowning. “As long as he doesn’t puke all over my cab.”

“I won’t. I’m fine.” John abruptly shut his mouth against the rising wave of nausea, and curled up on his side with his face against the back of the seat. He couldn’t sit up. “Just. Drive.”

“Doc, you _sure_ you don’t want me to ride with you?” Owen clamped a steady hand down on John’s calf.

Christ, he was drunk. He hadn’t been this drunk in twenty years. Everything was going round in circles, his head weighed so much he couldn’t hold it upright. He didn’t think he could talk. He shook his head as much as he dared, and Owen patted his leg.

“Alright, mate. You want me to ring Sherlock? See if he’s home?”

John shook his head again and swallowed. “No. Just. I want to go home. As quickly as possible.”

“Alright.” Owen said again. He reached over John and handed the cabbie a few bills. “That should take care of the fare, and there’s a few extra. Make sure he gets into his flat.”

There was a moment of hesitation where Owen was obviously reconsidering letting John go on his own. Then he slammed the door and the cab pulled away from the kerb. John tucked his knees closer to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to throw up until he was home. Despite a pang of guilt about coming home in this state, he couldn’t wait to see Sherlock, curl up against his chest and go to sleep. He smiled even through his nausea and pressed his knuckles into his eyes. Sherlock was all he usually needed to feel better, anyway.

***

_Sherlock_

Sherlock closed the front door gently. Baker Street was dead quiet, only the occasional clank of the heat pipes disrupting the silence. He toed off his shoes and tucked them against the wall under the coat rack, and swept the Belstaff off his shoulders. Hanging it between Mrs Hudson’s rose coloured macintosh and John’s black shooting jacket, his highly attuned nose twitched, detecting an out of place smell. Leaning forward, he ran his nose along the collar of John’s jacket. It reeked of beer, with faint undertones of sweat and cigarette smoke.

A pub with the team. Sherlock sniffed again. The smell of a cab, and cologne. John didn’t wear cologne. This was familiar, though. Sherlock shut his eyes and tried to place it. Hugo Boss. The cheap kind that they sold at Boots, not the more expensive ones from Harrod's. Owen - that nurse with the nine times broken nose - he wore it. He must have had his arms around John at some point.

John laughing and singing in a pub, his teammates arms around him - the image was ridiculously easy for Sherlock to conjure up. That kind of easy camaraderie didn’t come easily to either of them, but John had a lot more experience at pretending it did. Sherlock _couldn’t_ pretend, so it was probably better that Sherlock hadn’t been there. He would probably have done something awkward like deducing someone’s wife was cheating on him, and not be able to shut his mouth. Those moments usually earned him a faint _Bit not good, love_ , and a tight lipped smile that meant John was trying hard not be annoyed.

Sherlock crept up the steps. The door to the flat was unlocked. The faint odor of sick hung pungently in the air. _Oh John._ John’s keys were dangling off the edge of the coffee table, clearly thrown there hastily. His jeans were crumpled in a ball on the hallway floor. Sherlock picked them up and pushed the bedroom door open.

John was sprawled across the bed diagonally, his left leg hanging off, socked foot brushing the floor. He was wearing a dark tee shirt and red boxers, his beard was auburn in the yellowy light of the bedside lamp. Sherlock tossed the jeans into the hamper and pulled a folded blanket from the closet. He laid it gently over John and pressed a kiss to his temple, allowing his lips to linger enough to feel John’s pulse thumping comfortingly.

“Goodnight, John.” A strange lonely ache spread through his chest as John hummed and turned on his side, dislodging the blanket. His tee shirt was rucked up to his chest, and his bare belly was covered in goosebumps. Sherlock straightened the blanket and pulled it back over his front, tugged his shirt down a bit. “Missed you tonight. The corpse did, too. You would have been fascinated. Completely drained of blood, skin like tissue paper - it just fell apart under my - ”

John grumbled and waved his arm dismissively at Sherlock, threw it over his ear.

“Ah, well. I’ll save the bedtime stories for another night, then, shall I?”

John sleeping was something Sherlock never tired of witnessing. His furrowed brow smoothed, his soft pink lips always just slightly parted, his face in slumber was always untroubled. He was a bit of a thrasher, always waking up in the oddest positions, far from how he went to sleep. Many mornings, he had awoken to John’s squarish slender feet on his pillow instead of his head, or John half on his back with his head resting in Sherlock’s armpit and one arm thrown backward across Sherlock’s belly.

Waking up next to John was always perfect, no matter which part of him it was. After so many years of separation, waking up together still came as somewhat of a happy surprise to Sherlock. He would often wake hours before the alarm and just watch John sleeping, memorising every flutter of his honey blonde lashes, mentally recording every mutter and grumble and sigh. It didn’t make up for all the hours of John sleeping that he’d missed out on before they were together, but it was deeply satisfying nonetheless.

Sherlock peeled off his trousers and button down and put them in the hamper on top of John’s jeans. His pyjamas were still laying across the bottom of the made bed, where he’d left them that morning. He pulled them on, and dragged his warmest dressing gown over top. He laid down beside John, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. John rolled again, this time to face Sherlock. Their knees bumped, and his eyelids fluttered open briefly.

“Sheerleck?” He slurred, face half smashed into the pillow.

“I'm home." Sherlock brushed his fingers along John’s hairline. “Go to sleep.”

“Mkay,” John burrowed forward, a sleepy smile on his face.

Sherlock closed his eyes, listening to soft rhythm of John’s breathing. No one but John had ever engendered this kind of calm in him, just by being alive and being themselves. John was his centre, had been since the day they met, their connection immediate and immutable. Even when the world around them fell to pieces, John always shone like a beacon in the midst of the wreckage, calling Sherlock to safety. Calling him home.

There was too much space between them at the moment. He needed John's body touching his. Sherlock inched across the bed until he could drape a long arm over the dip of John’s waist, and press his lips to the little wrinkle between John's eyebrows.

John’s sleepy smile deepened at the corners, his rarely seen dimples making a brief appearance as Sherlock reached over him to turn out the bedside light.

“Luvyoo,” John mumbled, fingers catching at Sherlock's dressing gown and pulling him close.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock gathered John into his chest and rubbed at the small of John’s back, thinking how impossible it had once been to say that to each other. And how grateful he was that they could say it now.

“I love you so much,” he whispered into John’s hair, and snuggled down to put his lips to the tip of John's nose, to his bottom lip, to rub them against the scruffiness of his beard. John sighed and nudged his nose against Sherlock's, brushed a barely there kiss over his mouth.

They fell asleep with their foreheads pressed together, sharing the same pillow.

***

The sun was fully up and flooding the bed with light by the time Sherlock opened his eyes. He was curled tightly into himself, knees at his chest, his thick dressing gown not an effective enough barrier against the cold of the drafty flat. His feet were freezing. He looked over at John, who must have gotten up in the night and tucked himself under the blankets. Sherlock rolled off the bed, lifted up the blankets on his side, and crawled under. The familiar heat of John’s sleeping body radiated against him, and he moved closer, pressing his cold nose between John’s shoulder blades.

He smelled like sleep and perspiration, still faintly like alcohol. John hummed and shifted, tensing his back muscles against Sherlock’s now nuzzling face. Sherlock’s shiver had nothing to do with the cold room. It occurred to him that they hadn’t made love in more than ten days. John had been late at work and at rugby practice, and Sherlock had met him at practices, and then stopping for quick dinners on the walks home. By the time they got back to the flat each night, John was sore and exhausted, ready for a hot shower and a soft bed. Mornings had been hurried, both of them waking late and John rushing out the door to work.

Sherlock had recently been objecting more stringently about John’s work habits. John left early and stayed late, and wasn’t available for cases the way he’d once been. There was no need, Sherlock insisted. They made more than enough money from cases. _I need it, Sherlock. I do_. John would say, shaking his head. _Why?_ Sherlock would ask, and John would just shake his head again. They would get frustrated with each other, and John would eventually get up and go outside for a breath of air while Sherlock made tea and brought it downstairs like a peace offering.

“I miss you,” Sherlock whispered against John’s back, wanting to fold himself inside of him, surround himself with John.

John huffed and yawned, rolled on his back so quickly Sherlock had to move or get his face crushed. He smacked his lips and yawned again, rubbed his belly. His eyes stayed shut, though, and after a few minutes he settled back into sleep, his head dropping to the side as his body relaxed.

Propped up on his bent right elbow, Sherlock drifted his gaze over John’s sleeping form. That always shaggy blonde hair - no matter how short and rigid the haircut, it just grew in messy - was currently standing up in little spikes, which suited John’s face enough that Sherlock made a mental note to make him wear it gelled up like this later. His face was paler than usual, but his cheeks and forehead were ruddy - probably windburn - and he had a small blackish bruise at the hinge of his jaw. Those criminally long eyelashes looked even longer than usual, resting gently against the whiteness of his cheeks. The beard he’d now had for more than a year had darkened to a deep rust brown, streaked with just enough grey to look distinguished and not enough to make John look older. It was slightly longer than John normally kept it, straggling down over his Adam’s apple and curled course strands up near his earlobes. Sherlock preferred it this way, a bit wild.

The collar of his tee shirt was stretched, loose, showing the lovely hollow at where his collarbone met his neck. John’s neck was so thick and strong, just this side of incongruous with his small body, his thin hips and slender legs, his perfectly small hands. One of those hands was resting atop the blankets, fingers curled into his palm. Sherlock loved those hands, loved how steady and sure they were holding a gun, or examining a body, loved how gentle they were against his face or twirling a lock of his hair, loved the reverence with which they moved over his body, and their urgency when they were inside him. He loved to watch the precision with which John held a coffee mug, or turned a key in a door. They were the hands of a doctor and a soldier, simultaneously strong and delicate.

“I _miss_ you.” Sherlock said again, in a hush, both wanting to wake John and not to wake him. He pulled the blankets up over his shoulders and draped himself against the side of John’s body, knee to knee, shoulder to shoulder, Sherlock bent slightly at the waist to make up for their height difference. He tucked his nose under John’s jaw and inhaled, smelling the ghost of John’s shampoo, the sugary stale smell of last night’s beer, a bit of mouthwash.

John hummed and it vibrated through Sherlock’s lips, electric down his throat and through his belly. Between his legs was growing hotter, his cock pulling his pyjama bottoms taut. There was nothing more devastatingly sexy than John half asleep, warm and soft in all the right places. Sherlock breathed in the smell of his sleep-damp skin and exhaled against his throat. Many were the mornings a bleary eyed John was pulled roughly back into bed, protesting about being late for work as Sherlock straddled his hips and dared him to refuse. He never had.

Not recently, though. John had been up before Sherlock the last few weeks, showered and dressed and chewing a piece of toast before Sherlock was even aware it was morning. When Sherlock would stumble out of the bedroom, one eye squinted against the wretched intrusion of sunlight through the kitchen window, John would smile and press a crumby kiss against Sherlock’s lips before jogging down the steps and hurrying to catch the tube to work.

Something between them was off. Sherlock was surprisingly terrible about deducing issues between them, and John, for all his open affection, was painfully reticent when it came to discussing anything uncomfortable. So they’d both spent the better part of a month not saying anything at all about it, though Sherlock knew John had to feel it, too.

This morning felt different. Different in its normalcy. They were comfortable and warm against each other and John was making lovely throaty noises that meant he wasn’t getting out of bed any time soon. This moment of opportunity couldn’t be missed. Head swimming in a rushing tide of hormones, he opened his mouth against John’s throat and kissed him softly, dragging his lips along the line of his tendon. John squirmed and made an assenting noise, bent one leg up and let it fall against Sherlock’s hipbone.

At this silent invitation. Sherlock ducked his head under the blankets and slithered down along John’s waist, lifted himself over John’s bent knee and settled himself between his legs. Sherlock nosed up along the inside of John's sleep sweaty thigh, inhaling the pungent musky tang that was purely John, unmuddied by soap or fabric softener. He must have fallen into bed without even washing. Arousal blossomed warm and tingling through his belly, shivering over his scalp, and his cock twitched, the scent receptors in his brain on overload from the sweet hit of John's pheromones. He shivered and rubbed his nose back and forth against the soft cotton folded in the crease of John's thigh.

John stirred, grumbling softly, but didn't wake. Sherlock dared to put his tongue to the warm fabric. Salty and musty sweet, alcohol from the night before escaping through John's pores. Sherlock licked his lips, his heartbeat picking up. Tucking chilly fingers carefully into the waistband of John’s boxers, he slowly worked them down over his hips. John’s legs shifted and then stilled, tensing. The lip of the blanket lifted up and there was John’s sleepy face staring down at him in surprise.

“Good morning, beautiful. And what are you doing?” He said, voice thick from slumber, an amused grin playing at the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock’s chest filled with warmth at the welcome in John’s voice, the teasing affection that meant whatever you do, don’t stop. He allowed the heat that was tendrilling through him to shine out, looking at John from behind lowered lashes. Lowering his face to John’s soft cock, laying warm against his thigh, he nuzzled the velvet skin with his lips and murmured, “Apologising.”

John exhaled with a soft whimper, his cock stiffening against Sherlock’s mouth. “Sherlock. You don’t have to.”

“Want to.” It was a simplistic solution to whatever was happening between them, and Sherlock knew it, but he didn't have the words to talk about it. He didn't _want_ to talk about it. He wanted John's breath and skin. He wanted his smells and his sweat and his shaking body underneath him. He wanted to touch every part of John with his mouth and his hands and forget that they were two separate people who sometimes didn't understand each other.

Sherlock laid his face against the smooth muscle of John’s thigh and stroked two fingers along his length.

John breathed in sharply and threw the blanket back off of them, then kicked his boxers the rest of the way off. Sherlock ran his hand up and then down John’s cock, over his bollocks, and down his left leg. He lingered there, massaging the swell of his calf, trailing his fingers through sparse blonde hair, rubbing the tightness of his anterior cruciate ligament. John had always had athlete's legs, bowed at the knees, shapely and firm and covered in tiny scars that spoke to the kind of life he had lived - spent skidding across rugby pitches, kneeling in rough desert sand, scaling alley walls in East London with a gun in one hand - but now they were even more so, every muscle defined, hardened, mouthwateringly gorgeous.

“Your legs have gotten so - _strong_.”

“Yeah, well, playing rugby four nights a week will do that.” John tilted his head and smiled down at Sherlock. “You sure you don’t want me to - um - clean up a bit?”

Sherlock shook his head and let his eyes fall shut. He pushed his nose into the crease of John’s groin and drew in a long breath. John’s hand fell roughly into his hair, fingers twining around tangled curls.

“Fuck,” he hissed, and Sherlock could tell he was trying hard not to pull Sherlock’s hair. “Are you smelling me?”

Sherlock hummed a laugh and nodded, licked salt from the side of John’s bollocks, the pointed tip of his tongue dragging through fine cinnamon curls. “The scent of you is - in a word - intoxicating.”

“Oh, Christ, Sherlock.” John scratched at Sherlock’s scalp and sighed, letting his head fall back against the pillow. “You’re so - dirty, gorgeously, fucking perfectly dirty.”

“I haven’t had you in twelve days.” Sherlock scraped his fingernails lightly up John’s shin, over his knee, making him jerk and giggle reflexively.

“That tickles, stop,” John laughed, smoothing his whole hand over Sherlock’s head, brushing his hair back. Sherlock looked up into those complicated blue eyes, tidal like the sea, currently swimming with affection and sadness. “Hey, you. Beautiful thing. Twelve days, huh?”

“Twelve,” Sherlock affirmed. He slipped his hand over the curve of John’s hip, taking his time with every movement, wanting to draw this out. He kissed at John’s bollocks and cupped them in his hand. John arched up with a quick little pant, his bare feet pushing at the sheets. Sherlock pushed his lips harder against the pliable skin, John’s pubic hair tickling his nose. “I miss you.”

“Christ, that feels good, love. I miss you, too. I missed you yesterday.” John breathed out, his chest moving in shallow little truncated movements.

“I know.” Sherlock licked around the base of John’s now fully hard cock, pressing his tongue hard into the velvety smooth skin, and rubbed the end of his nose against it, inhaling the sleep sour musk. Delightful. He pushed John’s bollocks up against his body, kneading slowly, and John jerked hard, reached the hand not in Sherlock’s hair down to thread his fingers through Sherlock’s between his legs. He squeezed, tightening their entwined fingers around his bollocks, and let out a long _Ohhhhh_.

“Oh, god, Sherlock. Jesus fucking Christ almighty, you look so beautiful sucking me off, so beautiful,” John’s fingers flew through Sherlock’s hair, desperate and shaking. He sounded raw, on the edge of the kind of emotions they both avoided discussing.

Sherlock licked up to the head with a wide flat tongue, flicked at the slit and tasted salt and bitterness. John was dehydrated from all the drinking, his come would be thick and pungent. Sherlock shuddered at the thought. John’s come on his tongue was a treasure, however strong and bitter it was.

Sherlock lapped at the slit until John was moaning brokenly and rhythmically squeezing Sherlock’s hand around his bollocks. He opened his eyes at the crimson flush of John’s arousal over his belly, at his open mouth and his half shut eyes, his red tongue darting across his lips as he panted. The sight of John like this always made Sherlock both proud and hungry for more, hungry to make John out of his mind with pleasure, to sink down into John and forget that anything existed beyond the feeling of John’s sweaty skin against him and the sound of John’s throaty groans in his ear.

“Yeah, yeah, come on," John gasped, chewing at his lip, his cheeks flushed and glowing above his beard. He raised his hips entreatingly, pushing the head of his cock against Sherlock’s lips. "Open your mouth."

Sherlock parted his lips slowly, sinking his mouth down over John’s cock and undulating his tongue against the frenulum, pushing against the vein. He slid his hand out from under John’s and braced it against John’s thigh instead, steadying himself so he could bob and dip his head, pull up and twirl his tongue expertly around the head. John put both his hands in Sherlock’s hair, restless and twitching, fingers tightening against Sherlock’s scalp.

“God, you’re so good. Oh fuck, fuck, you’re so - “ John’s hips were moving on their own, rolling against the mattress, pressing up into wet heat of Sherlock’s mouth. “Harder, harder, please. God, your _mouth_ , it’s dangerous. It should be classified as a goddamned deadly weapon.”

Sherlock sucked harder, his own cock leaking inside his pyjamas, precome soaking the cotton as he rutted himself against the mattress. John's cock thickened, and Sherlock swirled his tongue in a long languorous upstroke and then pulled off, licking him from root to tip. He lowered his mouth to John’s bollocks and dragged his tingling lips over them, kissed at his thighs. “John, get the lube.”

“Okay, okay, yeah,” John muttered, breathless. He twisted and fumbled in the bedside drawer, and then he was pressing a half empty sticky bottle of lube into Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock slicked his fingers and trailed them teasingly between John’s arse cheeks. “Lift up,” Sherlock tapped his other hand on John’s thigh, “Get a pillow.”

“Christ, I like it when you get bossy.” Then end of John’s sentence faded into a gruff sigh as he handed Sherlock a pillow and tilted his hips up, his legs falling open into Sherlock’s touch.

“I know,” Sherlock grinned and rubbed his face against John’s cock, allowing the head to slide along his cheekbone. Precome smeared wet against his skin and he shut his eyes and moaned, knowing exactly how wanton he looked.

“You filthy boy,” John said roughly, grinning and biting at his mouth.

Sherlock grinned back and circled his tight entrance with two fingers. John exhaled and whined, pushing down as he looped one leg up over Sherlock’s shoulders.

Sherlock took John in his mouth again, his cock heavy and salty sweet against his tongue, and slid one finger into the welcoming tightness of John’s body. John clenched around him and rocked his hips up and back, smearing precome across Sherlock’s palate as the head of his cock bumped against Sherlock’s throat.

“Oh, god, Sherlock,” John husked out, his body in the state of constant motion that always signaled he was close - his hands scrabbling at the bedsheets, the headboard, running over his own torso and face, his toes curling and uncurling into the turned back blankets, hips trying to arch and buck even as Sherlock did his best to hold him still.

Sherlock slowed the movements of his tongue, pulled off and ran his mouth down the side of John’s cock as he pushed a second finger into him and swept his fingertips across his prostate. He knew after three years together the exact combination of mouth and fingers that would make John absolutely undone.

“You’re so tight, John, you feel so good.” Sherlock kissed John’s cock and circled his foreskin with the tip of his tongue.

“I love you,” John cradled the side of Sherlock’s face with his perfect small hand, chapped and rough from the winter weather, from throwing a rugby ball in the cold, from skidding across the rugby pitch on his hands and knees. “Oh, god, I love you, _oh_ -”

John’s sentence ended in a strangled inhalation, his hips jerking up off the bed as he ground his head back into the pillows. Sherlock felt his entire body trembling, tightening, and he crooked the two fingers that were inside him, simultaneously tonguing at his frenulum with the quick little licks that drove John mad with pleasure.

A hot frission of electricity zinged down Sherlock’s spine, his cock twitching against his thigh, as John let out a long low groan and yanked at Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock looked up just in time to see John’s nearly agonised sob, his teeth buried in his bottom lip, his eyes rolled back, the beautiful curve of that muscular back arching off the bed. Immediately his mouth was filled with the heat of John’s release, and he shut his own eyes, swallowing around John’s pulsing cock.

He lapped at him soothingly as John’s body relaxed back down into the bed, pulling off with the proud smirk he could never quite conceal. John was making little whimpering sounds and shivering every few seconds. Sherlock put reverent lips to the swell of John’s hipbone, nosed and kissed his way up his heaving stomach, nuzzling at the soft blonde peach fuzz that ended just over his sternum.

“Good, John?”

“Uh huh,” John lisped out, one endorphin slackened arm flopping heavily over Sherlock’s shoulders. With his other hand, he fumbled at the flap of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms.

Sherlock snuggled against him and pushed his hand away, ignoring for the moment his own arousal. Sometimes John’s pleasure was enough.

"I'm fine, John."

"You sure?" John slurred, fingers still plucking at the button.

"Completely sure."

“You’re so good, baby.” John turned toward him, pressing his hot mouth to Sherlock’s forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Sherlock whispered back, running a finger slow against John’s throat. “Are you going back to sleep?”

John smiled blearily, eyes still closed, and tightened his arm around Sherlock, drawing him close. “Mmm. Maybe just...for a bit. ‘M so sleepy…”

“Go back to sleep, John.” Sherlock kissed at his throat languidly, breathing him in, letting the soft curls of John’s beard tickle his nose, and pulled the blankets back up over them both. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Sherlock allowed himself to drift, though he wasn’t really asleep, cradled in the warmth of their bodies tangled together under the sheets, in the smell of John’s sweat as he slumbered. He tried not to think about the things left unsaid, the tension that had been between them lately. John’s arm was around him and John’s heart was beating steady against his ear, and right now, that felt like enough.


End file.
